Overflow
by Lindzzz
Summary: "On a cold and clear night, a man finds a boy who has lost something very important." A Pitch/Jack selkie AU.
1. Chapter 1

So, as the summary says, this is a Selkie AU in a modern setting! Warnings for some messed up undertones of brainwashing and manipulation. Pitch is terrible. As usual.

For those unfamiliar with the selkie myths, here's the wikipedia article! wiki/Selkie 

* * *

It's not often that the sky is this clear, or the moon this bright. The air is mild and the breeze pleasant, making the perfect night for a quiet walk with oneself.

Of course, the man does everything by himself these days, but he still appreciates the extra quiet and peace.

He takes a familiar path, winding down from his secluded home to meander through the tidepools and over the rocky beach. It was only a couple nights ago that he walked the exact same path.

But his purpose then had been different.

Now he enjoys the quiet, though he listens close to the still air, alert for any unusual sound besides his own breathing and the crunch of rough stone beneath his feet.

And there, a soft sigh grabs his attention. A flutter of a voice coming from within a close group of boulders. The man follows the small snatches of sound drifting out between the crash of the surf. As he gets closer to the boulders he can hear more clearly, and the pounding of his heart nearly drowns everything else out.

Crying. It's a desperate, panicked sound made from small shaking gasps and little whimpers and sobs. There's a shaking whisper to the sounds, like their creator is trying desperately to stay quiet but can't suppress the terror.

The man looks over the boulders slowly, very carefully.

The sight stops the air in his lungs.

His first impression is of pale, moonlit white skin and lean, tangled limbs. The young man crying brokenly to himself is something from a dream, lithe and small and practically glowing in the night even through the layers of smeared dirt and grime. The boy darts around through the stones, hands crusted with bits of dried blood from scrambling and scraping over sharp and rough rock.

The man moves in carefully, brows drawing together at the way the boy shivers, naked to the night air.

"Are you alright?" The man asks, voice appropriately concerned.

The pale boy flies back, plastering to the rock and chest heaving. "G-get away!" He chokes out, voice cracked and raw from crying. There are hints of otherness to him, his eyes are just a tad too large, a bit too blue, almost luminous in the way they reflect the moonlight. The man stops, holding his hand out placatingly, as if he's approaching a wild animal.

He's very aware that for all intents and purposes, he is.

"It's alright," he soothes, keeping his voice soft and even and low, "I'm not going to hurt you. I heard you crying while I was walking past." He frowns in worry, taking in the thin, dirty and bedraggled state of the boy. "What happened?" He asks when he's sure that the young man isn't about to run, "were you robbed?"

It's a logical question, considering the boy's bareness and panicked behavior. The question seems to reassure the boy a little. He's still breathing in hitching little gasps, but he no longer looks like he's about to bolt.

The boy breaks on a small, hysterical laugh, running a shaking hand through silvery hair. "I-...y-yeah," he sniffs, "you could say that. I got robbed, yeah."

The man steps in carefully, still moving slow and deliberate so as not to spook the boy. "Did you see who it was?"

"N-no...I wasn't actually around for, I mean uh. No, I didn't see them..."

The man nods, then frowns again as the boy shivers violently. He sighs and pulls his coat off. "For heaven's sake, put this on. You look like you're about to keel over any second."  
He holds his coat out, raising his eyebrows expectantly. The boy watches him warily and takes a hesitant step forward. The man drops the coat around him, pulling his hands back quickly before he scares the boy more. "What are you doing here?"

"Oh, I uh. I lost something." The young man shudders, pulling the coat around his thin shoulders, nearly drowning in the material. "Well, no...I think it was stolen. But- I...I was hoping..I need it, it's really-" His breath hitches on another small sob, a broken little noise that shakes him. "It's really important..." he finishes.

The man carefully puts a hand on the small creatures shoulder, gently steering him away from the stones and out into the open. "Well you can't be looking for it when you're halfway to collapsing." He chides, "Do you know how to get back home?"

There's a small, tormented whine that makes the man whip around to stare down at the boy, who pulls into himself and shakes his head. "I can't...I can't go home. I can't go home anymore!"

He starts shaking violently, breath hitching on panicked gasps and eyes glazed over with fear. The man feels a protective ache in his chest, a hollow twist telling him to take the boy in and shelter him from all that fear.

"Shh, it's alright just calm down!" The man runs the hand over the boy's shoulder, calming and sure as he guides him down the beach. "We can figure it out later, for now we need to get you out of here-"

"No!" The boy stops, eyes going wide, "No I can't go up by the hu-where people are! I can't, I need to hide!"

The man goes still, frowning in confusion, "from what?"

"The...I think that, I mean I know it's...the one's who robbed me, who stole my- the thing I'm looking for," The boy's eyes dart around, his breath starting to come in shorter bursts again, "I-, I think they're going to come and try to get me and I can't- I need to hide and I can't let them find me!"

"And your idea of hiding was crawling around the rocks bare as you were born?" The man scoffs.

"Um-"

"Come on," The man sighs, guiding the boy into walking again. "I live a ways from most of the people anyway, and no one bothers me. We can get you washed up and fed and dressed, and then we can try to find this thing you lost, alright?"

The boy eyes him nervously, obviously still considering running. But he slowly relaxes and nods hesitantly, "Yeah...um...ok. I guess... I guess I can do that. Thanks uh...what as your name?"

The man smiles, warm and pleased as he leads the boy up the path to his home.

"You can call me Pitch."

"Pitch," the boy repeats. He smiles then, small and watery, but still there, "I'm Jack."

"Pleasure to meet you, Jack." Pitch says happily. They walk the rest of the way in companionable silence, Pitch's hand on Jack's shoulder, steady and guiding.

Pitch opens the door as soon as they reach the top of the porch steps and his face is open and inviting as he holds it for Jack.

The boy is still a little frightened, still overwhelmed and worried but he's more relaxed now.

He's settling in.

After Jack walks through, Pitch pauses for a moment, looking over at the shed across his yard.

Beneath the floorboards, buried under feet of soil, and lovingly folded,

there's a plain, white, sealskin.

Pitch smiles, and shuts the door.


	2. Chapter 2

Reminder again for warnings: This is a story with a lot of Stockholm Syndrome themes and a bit of magical brainwashing thrown into the lovely mix.

Pitch put that selkie back where it came from or SO HELP ME...

* * *

Jack spends his first night sobbing brokenly into the pillows.

He hates himself a little for it. Jack doesn't cry. Jack doesn't break. He laughs and jokes and finds ways to smile through everything.

But he can feel the heavy ground pulling him down and tying him. He can feel gravity binding him and holding his limbs and smell the sea on the air.

A shower made him feel slightly better, but he hadn't been able to stay under the pour of stale, filtered and chemically treated water before he starts feeling sick.

The flannel pajamas Pitch gave him are soft and warm, but they drag on his skin and make him feel the lines of his arms and legs. Jack buries himself deep in the comforter on Pitch's guest bed, trying to muffle the desperate sounds clawing out from his throat.

He tries to sleep, but he can't close his eyes without horrible visions of huge hands grabbing him and ripping him from the water. Jack dreams of burly laughing fishermen covered in hair and reeking of death as they rip his skin from him and drag him to their bed.

He knows the sort of men who usually steal a selkie's pelt.

So he doesn't sleep, he drifts and clings to the pillows, muffling his screams into the soft plush.

It's hours, or maybe years, later that he feels the bed dip and a hand hesitantly weave through his hair. Jack leans into the touch, not caring that he doesn't know Pitch at all, just glad for some sort of comfort.

"Are you alright?" Pitch asks, and even his voice makes Jack feel a little better.

"No…" Jack whispers, not looking up from the pillows. He can never be alright, he's a grounded selkie. He's doomed to become one of the quiet, sad-eyed wraiths that haunt the edges of cliffs and beaches, staring out over the water that they can't return to.

"Tomorrow, if you're feeling better," Pitch says, voice a low, soothing balm, "we can go back and try to look for whatever it is you lost."

Jack looks up at that, swallowing thickly and blinking back the crust from old tears. "You'd help me?"

He can't quite wrap his head around it. Humans don't help. Humans capture and bind and destroy, but they don't help.

Pitch smiles, eyes lighting up like Jack is the best thing he's seen. "Of course. My writing won't suffer if I take a day off. And I'll help you as much as you want me to. You can stay here however long you need."

Jack drops his head back down to the pillow, sniffing loudly and closing his eyes when Pitch's hand resumes it's gentle petting through his hair.

He may be trapped, but he knows he's far luckier than most grounded selkies. The fact that Pitch found him, that Pitch took him in before the pelt thief could hunt Jack down and drag him off…

Jack remembers his dreams of large, rough hands and foul breath. He would have been bound to whoever held the pelt, forced to love them against his will no matter who they were. That was the selkie's real curse, loving their captors, even as the sea dug claws into their soul and desperately tried to call them back. Even as every day was pain.

Jack would love them, whether he wanted to or not.

He shudders, moving unconsciously closer to Pitch's warmth. Yes, he's very lucky that Pitch found him first.

"I'm not usually this much of a mess." He croaks out, still feeling choked and strangled by the crying.

"You've had a big night," Pitch says. "It's understandable."

Jack nods, but he still doesn't quite feel like himself. He loses himself in the feel of fingers carding through his hair and the sound of the surf pounding the rocks.

"Thanks…" he says.

The hand in his hair moves and Jack can feel warm knuckles softly brushing over his cheek.

"You're always welcome." Pitch says softly.

—-

It's been two weeks since Jack walked through his front door, small and frightened and surrounded by his coat, and Pitch still feels as if he's living in a dream.

Seeing Jack walking within the walls of his home is surreal. Pitch feels like he has wandered into a tale from long ago, like he's still asleep and will wake up back to a mundane world where there are no fey, pale creatures curled in his guest bed and padding barefoot and silent through his halls.

Jack is so unmistakably wild. Even washed and dressed he wears his loose t-shirts like he forgets they're there and rolls his pants up to the knee, refusing to wear shoes because he complains about how they feel too grounding.

The boy moves silently and with such careless grace. Every gesture is both deliberate and unconscious, everything unrefined yet perfectly distilled. Jack is constantly in motion and yet can freeze and hold so perfectly still that he turns into a statue. Pitch could spend hours simply watching the way Jack moves.

And he does. He can. He can observe and watch Jack as much as he wants, whenever he wants. He can sit at his writing desk and watch the way Jack moves through the room, fingers trailing curiously over various shelves and books and knick knacks. He can sit in the chair by the guest bed at night with a book and read while basking in the way Jack's lashes flutter over his cheeks, in the way he curls within the comforter like he's trying to get lost in it, in the suppressed little hurt sounds he'll make as he dreams.

He's a wild animal who's barely tamed. He's something feral and natural with porcelain skin and hair spun from the moonlight and large, large blue eyes that catch the light like rare gems.

And Pitch can't deny that the way Jack sinks into the cushions, the way he'll shrink into the bedding and surround himself with pillows, makes him want to climb in and hold the boy close. To cradle him and pull him in and soothe all those injured sounds out of him.

He doesn't have to wait long, it's on the second day that he finally gets to hold Jack to him.

They had spent the entire day scouring the beach running in front of Pitch's home. He lives far enough away from the nearest town that he felt safe enough, letting Jack wander. It was still nerve-wracking, watching Jack run off and disappear for short periods of time behind various boulders. Pitch was able to relax after a while though.

He just had to keep reminding himself that Jack couldn't go anywhere, and then it was alright.

After that he is better able to join in, to suggest areas where small, unwatched items could have been picked up by the surf or brought in by the tide. Something could easily fall into a crevice and go unnoticed, after all.

Unfortunately, they weren't able to find anything.

That night Jack had somehow found a way to pile every cushion he could find, couch cushions included, onto his bed and curled up in the center of the pile. When Pitch came into the room later he could only spot a tiny glimpse of white hair peeking out from between two throw pillows that had been pilfered from the living room.

Pitch smiles and runs a lock of hair between his fingers, marvelling at the silken slide of it over his fingertips. He wonders what the purpose to all the pillows is, though he's already making plans go go buy some more especially for Jack's use.

Does Jack prefer the larger ones or the smaller, soft ones? He'll have to ask.

The cushions may obstruct his view, but he still finds it pleasant to sit and read while listening to Jack breathe and sigh in his sleep. Pitch loves being there to see every shuffle within the pillows, hearing every sound and being there for every glimpse.

And when Jack wakes up screaming into the cushions, sobbing broken and desperate and lost… Pitch is already there to hold him and run fingers through his hair and ease the ache away.


	3. Chapter 3

Magical Brainwashing Sucks: The Story

At least Jack isn't as woobie moe anymore that last bit was a little painful to write. I can't do Jack if he isn't being a little shit. 

* * *

"The hell is that?"

Before Pitch can ask what "that" is, his toast is snatched from the plate in front of him. He raises his eyebrows and looks up at where Jack is perched up on the table.

Two weeks and Jack still hasn't learned (or bothered to care) how to properly use furniture. But it's no matter. Pitch loves the untamed innocence of it. The odd juxtaposition of his perfectly furnished kitchen with Jack's gleaming blue eyes and bare feet hooked over the edge of the table in a crouch.

"Well that was my breakfast." Pitch says indulgently.

"It looks like a brick." Jack squints at the toast like it's something especially bizarre. Really, this was from the boy who had a habit of eating the fish before Pitch had a chance to cook it.

"I don't know what bricks you've been looking at, but none of them look like toast." Pitch reaches up to pluck the offending food from Jack's hands, taking a moment to ruffle his hand through Jack's hair.

Jack wrinkles his nose and leans into the brief caress, still glaring suspiciously at the toast. He never questions the touches. Never pulls away or seems especially perturbed by them. Jack will accept any pet or caress, he'll lean into fingers running through his hair and relax into a hand sliding down his back. There have been several times where he seemed to almost seek touch out, where he would lean as Pitch walked by, as if gravity was pulling him in to seek some sort of contact.

Pitch settles back into his chair with a smile, hardly paying attention to the act of spreading jam on his toast. "Perhaps I can go into town and get you something less brick like, hm?"

No response.

Pitch glances up, seeing if Jack is perhaps still scowling at the toast, but the boy is still as stone. Jack has the ability to become so literally still that one can hardly see him breathing, not even his hair moves in the breeze from the air conditioning as he stares out the window with a fierce look.

"Jack?"

The spell breaks. Jack goes from motionless to a flurry of legs and arms within half a second, leaping down from the table so fast that he nearly knocks Pitch's plate off in his rush to the door. Pitch's stomach drops out, his heart wrenches up into his throat as Jack bolts for the door. He couldn't leave! He can't leave what was he doing?!

"Jack!" Pitch takes off after him, he's not sure what he can do to keep Jack (he already DID what he had to do to keep Jack he doesn't understand!) but he'll run as far as he needs to.

It turns out he doesn't have to run far. Jack stops at the edge of the small cliff that Pitch's house stands on, staring out at the water with shaking hands. He barely glances over when Pitch comes up along side him, breathing hard.

"Jack, what-" He glances out and hisses out a breath when he spots what has Jacks attention.

Seals.

A small group, jumping through the water and twisting around each other as they take turns popping up to look at the shore.

Jack is practically vibrating, staring out over the water with a pained, almost horrified longing.

And things had been going so well.

Pitch glares out at the seals. The selkies. Of course, NOW they're interested in Jack. NOW they decide that Jack is worthy of their attention and concern.

'You had your chance.' He thinks viciously. Jack makes a small sound next to him, one he probably isn't even aware of, and Pitch quickly schools his features into a sad concern.

"Were they your family?" He asks gently.

Jack jumps and tears his eyes from the pack to stare at Pitch. His breath starts shortening, breaking into little bursts that make his chest flutter. "What?"

"You're not very subtle." Pitch says with a rueful smile. "I could hardly mistake you for something as base as a human. I also have the advantage of already knowing a bit more lore than the average person. My writing often focuses on the mythological."

He doesn't mention the days spent watching the selkie pack, at first not believing his eyes but then taking a comfort in their grace, their sinuous movements in the water.

It had only been a passing interest, a distant aesthetic appreciation as he kept himself tucked away in the rocks. It wasn't until he had spotted the lithe, snow white form darting among the pack that he began to get other ideas.

Jack looks back out at the selkies, eyes flicking over the horizon. He swallows and takes a steadying breath, looking away from the water. Looking down at his feet on the ground.

"They...I mean they kind of were yeah." He finally says, keeping his eyes down instead of on the selkies. "I don't really know my original family, this pack...they took me in."

Pitch nods to himself, looking out over the water. He had suspected as much. Jack had always seemed a bit separate from the rest of the group.

They pretended to take him in, but Jack wasn't truly part of them.

He didn't belong with them.

"It was your pelt, wasn't it? That you lost?" It's a risky question. Pitch isn't quite sure why he asks it, but he watches Jack avidly for what the boy will do.

And oh he doesn't disappoint. A small, delicate tremor goes up the boys spine. Barely noticeable except for the shake in his shoulders and the aftershocks moving through his white hair. Jack runs his hand through those strands as if to still them, to anchor himself in them. His hand clenches in his hair as he continues looking down at the ground.

"Yeah...yeah I...I had hoped that it was just misplaced you know? That...that it hadn't been..." Jack takes another slow breath, tightens his fingers in his hair. He's something on the edge, something barely put together and Pitch so desperately wants to replace that hand with his own, to pull Jack in and put him back in place. Put him back together and keep him beautiful and here forever.

"If you hadn't found me," Jack goes on, "I would have...I mean I guess I was only alone for a bit because whoever took it was hiding it maybe. And if they had found me," Jack swallows, looks back at the water, and quickly away again, "I'd have to be theirs. I don't know much about what happens...just from other selkie wives who escaped. But they always said that they loved them, whoever took it. I wouldn't have any choice." He finishes in a horrified whisper.

Pitch is glad for the breeze, that helps hide the shiver that goes up his spine.

"It's a good thing I found you, then." He says evenly.

Jack looks up then, not at the water, but at Pitch with a small smile. "Yeah...yeah it is."

They went back in shortly afterwards, Jack hadn't said anything else, he'd just turned and silently walked back into the house. The quick flurries of energy were gone from him, but even his slow, broken steps fell on the ground lightly and so evenly that he looked like a floating spectre accidentally clothed in jeans and a sweatshirt.

He went into the guest room without a sound and Pitch didn't stop him. This was a delicate time, and he understood if Jack needed some time alone.

It makes everything quiet,makes his house seem like something ordinary. Pitch sits against the armrest of the couch with his notebook, tapping at the side with his pencil while he tries to find words. He's taken a small break from his plays and dabbling in poetry now. Not anything that he plans on being famous for. The plays have done enough of that for him and the little scribbles he calls poems are simply a nice break.

He jots words down, crosses them out, writes different ones. Ignores the lines on the paper and simply puts his pen down wherever it may go. If he loses himself in the scratch of the tip against the texture of paper then he doesn't have to hear how quiet it is while Jack hides away.

The hours pass and drag while slipping away all too quickly, Pitch forces himself to lose time in the writing, or else he'll barge into the guest room and demand Jack come out. And that wouldn't do for either of them.

Jack may be dressed and cleaned and for the most part, civil. But he was something wild and feral, he had to be coaxed out. Had to be let on his own to come out on his own, his trust was something to be brought out slowly.

Even with the supernatural push, Pitch felt that he should earn the rest of Jack's trust.

"Um...hey Pitch?"

Pitch yanks his eyes up from the notepad, up to where Jack stands in the entrance to the hallway.

"Yes, Jack? Are you feeling alright?"

Jack bites his lip, looks like he's weighing his options. His eyes are puffed and there are bright bursts and explosions of red on his cheeks. The flush and glaze from old tears only make his eyes so much more blue, so much brighter.

Jack takes a moment, then steps into the room, feet falling slowly and cautiously. Pitch realizes that Jack is approaching as if PITCH is the wild animal, the one who may turn and run without warning.

"Can I-...do you mind if I sit with you?" Jack asks tentatively.

Pitch doesn't even try to hide the smile that comes to his face. He couldn't hold it down if he tried. It's allowed to grow, to spread over his features as his chest fills with warmth. "Of course. I don't mind at all."

Permission granted, Jack moves swiftly. There's barely a heartbeat before Pitch finds himself with a small warm body pressed against his side. Jack works himself under Pitch's arm, curls in towards him and buries his head against his collarbone, fingers tangling up in the material of Pitch's dress shirt.

He had only let himself have the smallest touches of Jack. Had only allowed himself the brush of fingers and gentle press of his palm on Jack's head or back. Now he's surrounded by Jack. He can feel Jack pressed like a brand against his side, the tickle of white hair against his jaw, a hint of soft hands through his shirt and the echoes of a second heartbeat pressing against his ribs.

Pitch has to separate himself mentally for a moment, not long enough to miss anything, but just for a breath of a second while he composes himself. After that he's calm enough to drink in the bounty lying against him.

Jack is even more beautiful this close. From here Pitch can see each eyelash lying against his cheek, can see the salt and pepper color of Jack's eyebrows and the faint freckles and blotches over his pale skin. Each blemish somehow adds to him, makes him something MORE. Pitch lifts a hand slowly, runs his thumb over the cut of Jack's cheekbone and sighs in pleasure as Jack moves in closer. The selkie is now practically in his lap, cheek pressed to Pitch's chest and legs laid out over Pitch's thighs. Jack moves his head so that Pitch's hand is in his hair and Pitch smiles, running his fingers through it without further prompt.

"I _really_ am glad that you found me first. You're weird and all, but you're alright." Jack murmurs against Pitch's shirt.

He can feel the warmth of Jack's breath through the material. Feels the echoes of the soft damp of his mouth through his shirt and onto his skin. He wants to sink his fingers into Jack and pull him down. Wants to feel that warmth against his lips and that slight, inhuman body plastered against his. Pitch wants to fall back and pull Jack onto him, to swallow him whole and take and give as much as he can.

His hand runs over Jack's head, cradles the curve of his skull against his palm as Pitch leans down and presses his lips into Jack's hair. He closes his eyes, lost for a moment in the smell and feel all around him.

"So am I." He whispers against Jack's head.


End file.
